Chachapoya Pachamama
by Sat-Isis
Summary: I cannot seem to write anything serious, so I will write something silly: Beckington MPreg.
1. Chapter 1

"_Hideous_." "Dreadful." "_Odious_." "Detestable." The logomachy between the two men regarding the repellent object before their scrutiny fluttered like a birdie across a badminton court. "Where ever did you get such a _grotesque_ thing?" the severe man in the green-black frock coat asked. "The Viceroy of Perú made a gift of it," the man in the flamboyant verdigris frock coat answered. The object under examination was a golden statue, only six inches high, representing a woman in childbirth: her mouth was a grimace of teeth; her tits lumped atop her thighs, as she squatted and her young enthusiastically erupted from her cunt.

"Whatever shall you do with it?" "Add it to my collection, naturally, my _private_ collection." "It is curious that the Spaniard did not melt it down." "Curious? Perhaps. He told me it was some goddess the natives worshiped. There may yet be power in this idol." "Truly, if you feel that way, then out of deference for the old girl you should pass her along to someone else and let them worry about her power." "_Mercer_, your superstition is showing again." "Good sense is not superstition, Sir; need I remind you of the old god, the evil god of Cissbury?" "The _English_ still rule the west of Sussex; the natives of Perú were crushed under the heel of Pizarro."

Mercer continued to look dubiously at him, no doubt his next bathetic expression would increase to incredulity, but he was cut short. "Off with you now, my dear Mr. Mercer: you have work to do." "As you wish, Lord Beckett," and Mercer bowed out of the room. Lord Beckett gave the golden idol a conspiratorial appraising glance, "We shan't let dour, old Mercer ruin all our fun, hmm?" Beckett laughed and carried the statue into his private quarters. The centerpiece of his mantel, a French bracket clock, was set down and in its place the fertility goddess gazed out with her contorted countenance over the expanse of Cutler Beckett's bed.


	2. Chapter 2

"Come for me, James," Beckett grunted as he threaded his fingers through the other man's hair and grasped a slender hip in a bruising grip. "No," James growled back, fisting his hands in the sheets and gnashing his crooked teeth on a pillow sham. Both men were slick with sweat from fighting each other along with their mutual desire, Cutler's hand kept slipping off Norrington's hip. "Come on, come for me," Beckett bit out; clamping both hands on Norrington's narrow hips and bearing down on him. "No-OH!" Norrington's denial ended in a moan as he began to release into Cutler's onslaught. "Yes," Beckett hissed and finished inside James' trembling body.

Cutler slumped over James and panted into the back of his neck. Norrington jerked and swung his arm back at Beckett, moving him just enough to roll out from under him and onto his side. Cutler slid up to him from behind and slid a palm down James' bicep. "Get off me," Norrington demanded as he grabbed Beckett's wrist and threw his hand back at him. "Oh, James, you must not be that way. I know you liked it," Cutler chastised with a grin. Norrington huffed, "I would rather not like it and preserve my dignity." "Oh yes, like you had any dignity when I found you," Beckett muttered. "Actually, I found you. Pervert," James corrected, and tacked on the insult.

"Stop that!" Beckett slapped Norrington's buttock in retaliation. "You stop it!" James yelled and lurched up in the bed, ready to flee. Cutler snatched James' wrist and pulled him back, saying, "Come back," in that little pleading, wheedling voice he had, the one that made Norrington feel sorry for him. "I just want to sleep," James said wearily. "Fine," Beckett pouted and began gathering up the top sheet that was laid across the bed; neither of them enjoyed sleeping in the wet spot. The bunched up sheet was thrown on the floor at the foot of the bed and both slid under the remaining sheet. Cutler would wait until James fell asleep before bunting up to him.

* * *

The eyes of the Golden Idol on the mantel came alive and glowed in the sultry darkness. There was greediness in the eyes of the goddess as her gaze stroked down on the two figures in the bed. A fine tribute they had made unto her, if a bit unorthodox. Still, there was some power left in her and she called upon the Moon and the Earth and the stars trembled at her request. Deep in the womb of the Earth bloody magma roiled up to reach for the moonbeams that sought to tether the Oceans to the Heavens and in that moment before the forces of Heaven and Earth began to tear at each other was perfect silence and perfect stillness.


	3. Chapter 3

A dull rumble shook the bed and then the entire room trembled with a great series of booms like cannon blast. An ornate mirror smashed to the floor. James reared up out of bed from a sound sleep yelling, "Beat to quarters!" and in the process elbowed Beckett in the stomach. Cutler woke up with a shout next to him. Norrington, forgetting he had gone to sleep in Beckett's bed and not on his ship, turned to Beckett and started screaming as the room continued to shake as though the walls were being battered by a broadside. Porcelain vases fell from console tables and shattered; their pieces skittering across the floor like albino cockroaches. Beckett screamed in response to Norrington's screaming and when he realized the room was shaking he threw his arms around James and screamed, "What is happening?!"

"We are under attack, let go, damn you!" James shook free of Beckett and tried to get out of the bed. The floor kept moving, not in the swell of waves and cannon fire, and Norrington understood their predicament in a rush of inspiration. "Good Lord! It's an earthquake!" he yelled as he joined Beckett back in the bed. Crawling to the center of the bed both men clung to each other as the wall facing the sea began to crack vertically. It was made even more frightening by the fact they were on the second story. "Are we going to die?" Cutler quailed. "I hope not!" James yelled, trying to be brave, but clutching just as tightly to Beckett. Plaster cracked away from the ceiling and was caught by the bed's canopy or fell to the floor.

Slowly, the ferocity of the earth's movements died down to a fervor and then a stillness and silence made more acute in the absence of sound and fury. Norrington was breathing hard; his eyes squeezed shut against Beckett's shoulder, when he felt the stillness outside the beating of his heart. He pulled back and looked at Cutler, about to drop his arms but pausing when he saw the impossibly wide eyes, bone-white face, and trembling lips. Cutler Beckett was not looking at him; he was not looking at anything, just shaking. "Beckett," James said, giving the other man a quick shake, "Beckett...?" There was no response and Norrington began to feel how cold Cutler's was and he wondering if this was the source of the palsy.

Loud footsteps jostled down the corridor, becoming louder and James tried to leap from the bed, but Beckett's hands reached out and seized him in a clawing grasp. "Let go! Someone is coming!" Norrington hissed between his crooked teeth and nearly suffered an apoplexy when the door burst open and fell off its broken hinges. It was Mercer in his nightshirt who had shouldered open the door. "Everything all right?" he asked as he approached the bed. Norrington was still trying to disentangle himself from Beckett, "No, there is something wrong with him. I think he is having some kind of fit." "Is he cold to the touch?" Mercer asked as he pressed his wrist against Cutler's forehead. "He is freezing and he shakes," James answered.

"This happens sometimes," Mercer stated with authority, "I will tend to him." Mercer frowned, "He will need Saunders as well." Mercer climbed into the bed and placed himself between Beckett and Norrington, giving the admiral a chance to escape. As Mercer soothed Beckett, James went to the window and looked out beyond the curtains. "Good God!" he exclaimed as he saw the chaos below. Fires were creeping up hither and thither and the entire port and her ships were under threat. Norrington frantically put on his clothes, ready to muster his men to restore order and put out the fires. In the last century and earthquake had nearly wiped Port Royal off the map; this time Norrington refused to let a fire finish the job on his watch.

"Will it come back?" Beckett whispered like a child. It caught James' attention and he bit back a snarky retort at seeing Cutler Beckett so shattered. "No, not like before. There may be a bit more shaking, but the worst of the quake is over. Fire is now the worst of our problems," James explained. Beckett noticed Norrington shrugging on his greatcoat and pleaded, "Come back." James stood tall and tucked his hat under his arm, "I must do my duty and see to the protection and preservation of Port Royal. Mr. Mercer, if the fires rage out of control, do not run to the ships – they too will catch fire – run to the jungle and hide." Mercer nodded and James left to restore the peace and put out the fires.

* * *

Among all the shattered pottery, powdered plaster dusted broken furnishings, broken glass, and cracked walls only the grotesque golden statue remained safe and unmoved upon the mantel; her eyes glittered in the light of the fires friscolating in the moonlit twilight beyond.


	4. Chapter 4

James Norrington smashed the hilt of his sword grasped in his fist against the back of a man's head; he had been cutting the fingers off a corpse to steal rings. There was no point in arresting anyone; there were not enough men to do the job and not enough cells for the wicked. _Stop what can be stopped and get out of the way of what cannot be stopped_, was Norrington's motto in this crisis. The Admiral was tired and filthy, covered in sweat and soot. The city burned for three hours; there was rape and looting and madness. Older buildings had tumbled apart while the oldest of buildings built over hot, loose sand had simply vanished. Boats were beached in the middle of the streets and part of the city was still under water. The _Endeavour _was perilously close to capsizing. Theo was on that ship and trying to set her to rights. Sailors and marines formed bucket brigades to put out fires and EITC foot soldiers swept through the streets to pull the living from the dead.

* * *

Cutler Beckett huddled in a swaddling of blankets with chattering teeth. He was terribly cold even though he was sitting directly on the bed warmer full of coals. Saunders prepared hot milk in a stoneware mug and he helped Cutler to sip it without spilling it. Maids and footmen were sweeping up the damage about the place and setting what could be to rights. All was not lost: the structure stood, it was not on fire, and it was not yet being looted. Mercer kept watch at the broken window, his knives and his pistols ready for the madness below should it dare encroach on his territory. It was only loyalty to Beckett that kept him above the fray, how dearly he would love to be down there among the blood and the screaming.

* * *

Morning twilight crept across the broken building and warred with the smoke from smoldering ruins. The madness that had run rampant after the earthquake was winding down; fires had been put out and the wicked had been put down. The water had receded back into the harbor and the men of the _Endeavour_ plucked up corpses as they floated by. James wondered vaguely if Davy Jones was there just beyond the horizon of the harbor, waiting with ferryboats for the poor souls his sailors missed. Norrington would write to Kingston for aid and any incoming ship would be requisitioned for cargo and manpower. If the Admiral was still standing by shear will alone then that was the only thing keeping his men standing as well.

* * *

A crowd had gathered in high street, displaced people with no place to go. They were tired and hungry, some of them were hurt. Beckett was still cold, but his teeth no longer chattered and he could hold his own mug of hot milk. Saunders shuffled towards the window, looking down his nose at Mercer despite the younger man being taller than him. The housekeeper had been up to tell him that there was a mob gathering outside the front door and someone had taken up to pounding on it. There was no mob, but the possibility existed. Mercer was looking forward to the possibility, a hound sniffing the ground for the first scent of fox. Saunders spoke softly to Cutler, back at his side, and reminded him of his responsibilities as a noble in this disobliging colony: _give them bread least they realize they can take it_. "Do it," Lord Cutler Beckett ground out between clenched teeth.


	5. Chapter 5

A month after the earthquake the displaced colonists were still living in tents and shanties. Serious rebuilding could not begin until the survey of the land was completed; there was great concern that the western shore would slip completely into the Caribbean. An even greater concern was the disease that had crept out of the jungle after the quake. One third of the colonists had died within the first two weeks from injuries and then malignant fevers began to take hold. First to succumb were the frail and infirm, followed by the old and the young, and then people who were completely healthy.

The aid Admiral Norrington had sent for trickled to a stop as word of the disease spread and ships rerouted to Kingston to avoid the sickness. James was forced to go out in the _Endeavour_, hunting ships like a bloody private, to requisition anything useful. Lord Beckett had wanted to force the help of Davy Jones, but Norrington had put his foot down. While it was his right to requisition supplies from merchant vessels within the Company's charter, he would not allow Jones to press gang those in the raided ships into his monstrous crew. What the _Dutchman_ could accomplish in an evening of storms and screaming took James Norrington two weeks to "legitimately" attain.

Saluting, Lt. Groves was there to meet him at the docks, having been left in charge while the Admiral was away and Lord Becket locked himself inside his mansion. Cutler's reputation did not suffer, however, as his household carried baskets of food to the temporary shelters. Mr. Mercer's watchful eyes and quick knives kept the scullery maids, forced to carry the baskets, from contact with the diseased. It annoyed James to no end that Theo, despite his haggard state, was able to greet him with his usual smile. He should have been pleased to receive such a welcome, but nothing pleased him. Norrington was exhausted, his body ached, and he needed to piss like horse, again.

The smile fell from Theo's face as he approached and James felt bad; his own black mood was no reason to ruin Theo's happiness at his return. Norrington tried to twitch his face into a smile and grasped Lt. Groves on his shoulder, "Forgive me, Groves. I am unfit for company such as yours." The smile jumped back up on Theo's face, "Glad to have you back, Sir. Shall I unload while you make your report to Lord Beckett?" James nodded and Groves replied, "Aye-aye, Sir!" as Norrington gave his shoulder a squeeze before releasing him and making his way to Lord Beckett's.

Not far from the docks stood a bit of half-tumbled stone wall and James leaned a hand against it as he took his prick out of his britches and pissed in the dirt. Half-hidden behind the stones he did not startle when Mr. Mercer leaned against the other side of the wall. Norrington had been expecting him, but what he did not expect was him sliding a glace over the wall and commenting, "You have a nice cock, Admiral." "Piss off, you wanker," James groaned as he emptied his bladder. Mercer blinked. That was certainly the last thing he had expected Norrington to say. He was hoping to fluster the man into dropping said cock and pissing on himself. Mercer chalked it up to the stress of recent events and was looking forward to making the unflappable Admiral…flappable again…at his crude comments.

James shook his prick before adjusting himself and buttoning his britches, then he reached into the pocket of his waistcoat and handed Mercer his report. "I see he did not trust me to come back on my own," Norrington said disparagingly to Mercer as he walked the path towards the high street. Mercer said nothing, as was his wont, and arched a brow at the Admiral. "Damn it all," he muttered mostly to himself, "I have no idea why I keep trying to have a conversation with you." James breathed heavily as he trod up the slope, but he refused to stop and catch his breath. All he wanted, all that kept him moving, was the thought of getting out of his itching clothes, washing his face, and falling into bed. James did not care if that meant Beckett would bugger him all night long, so long as he could sleep through it.

Mercer gestured around to the back of the mansion, as apparently the front was barricaded from the inside, and both men entered through the servant's door. Mercer carried on to the parlor while James took the servants stairs to the bedrooms. He did not notice that the broken glass had been replaced in the window and went directly to the corner basin stand. As he disrobed his own stench assaulted him and Norrington grasped the soap to wash more than his face. He almost put the soap back when the smell of lavender repulsed him. An odd occurrence as James normally found lavender quite pleasant, but now it had seemed to take on the unpleasantness he usually associated with blood, shit, and fear.

Washing as quickly as he could, James breathed through his mouth until he could acquire a clean shirt from the _bombé_ chest. A little sachet of tonquin beans was among the linens and Norrington cautiously sniffed the shirt; the light fragrance was reminiscent of vanilla, almonds, cinnamon, and cloves. James found this neither repulsive nor delightful and with indifference he shrugged the shirt over his head. He was dragging the bedding down when the main door opened behind him and Cutler Beckett stepped into the room. "James," Beckett said quietly and closed the door behind him. Norrington sighed as he turned around, "Lord Beckett."

Cutler was struck by how haggard Norrington looked and approached him gently. James was still as Beckett touched his cheek and tipped up on his toes to kiss him on the lips. Cutler pulled back, sensing wrongness in Norrington – a complete lack of response, for good or for ill, which was uncharacteristic. "You must forgive me, Lord Beckett," James began, "but I am exhausted and would like nothing more than to crawl into bed." "Surely you would benefit from something to eat," Beckett began, but was cut off. "I have no appetite." Norrington was firm and his pinched features began to take on the air of anger. Cutler was at a loss at how to contend with the sudden mood swing.

James suddenly flopped down onto the bed and slunk under the covers. Cutler raised a hand, perhaps to touch Norrington's hair, but stilled as he caught the look of rage in the man's green eyes. The rage crumbled quickly to grief as James wailed from his pillow, "My God, leave me alone!" His hand came quickly over his eyes and his shoulders trembled as though he was crying. Beckett's only intent in that moment has been to soothe, perhaps persuade, but the outburst made him retreat from the bed and quit the room. Closing the door quietly behind him, Cutler returned to the parlor as though nothing untoward had happened. He would read Norrington's report in his office later.

* * *

The next morning at breakfast, the Admiral was his usual self; it seemed a good night's rest unmolested did the trick. Until the fork fell from his fingers and he ran from the room. Norrington did not make it far, but at least he had the wherewithal to vomit in a large porcelain pot that was home to some exotic plant Beckett had brought back from the Orient. Saunders was grateful there was no need to clean bile from the Persian carpets. Cutler Beckett looked on in horror as James continued to gag long after he had pitched up all he had eaten into the pot. Sweaty, pale, and weak, Norrington was helped up by one of the footmen and half-carried back to bed. A little voice in the back of Beckett's mind whispered that James had the deadly fever.


	6. Chapter 6

James Norrington did little but vomit, weep, moan, and occasionally sleep for the next three days. There seemed times when his stomach would hold, only to empty itself out again. There were times when he roused from the bed, only to have nausea and an empty stomach send him reeling back onto the mattress like a fainting maiden. The only escape was sleep and when he could not breach the gate of dreams he sobbed for the too bright light and to too loud sounds of the household during the day.

James was weeping again, so soft and wretched because the muscles of his stomach could barely move without a protest and he had just spent the past five minutes heaving nothing but bile into the pot placed next to the bed. There were no tears, only a grit of crust that burned his eyes the way his stomach bile burned his chapped lips. He was thirsty. He was hungry. He was tired. He was in agony. Norrington had curled himself into a gangly ball towards the edge of the mattress, waiting for a respite from his misery.

Lord Cutler Beckett had kept is distance, either because he feared catching what Norrington had or h could not stomach the sick stench of him. Usually, it was Mr. Mercer who brought a physician, surgeon, or quack; James thought Mercer would have been a better blood letter than any of them with their razors and leeches. There was the fear that James had caught something entirely new, something that had slithered its way out of the jungle in the disaster and attached itself to him; he had no fever, nor sores, nor spots.

Cold, clammy skin made him shiver with a palsy all over and his eyes were sunken and bruised like a corpse. He stank of sickness and the damned sachets of lavender meant to cover up the stench. Norrington's lanky frame had grown impossibly gaunt in the past few days and it made him look as though he had lived his entire life as an invalid. It was terrible to die like this. Give him a sword to the heart, or a splinter of deck through the neck, or decapitation by cannon ball; not this creeping and crawling towards the grave!

James moaned like an animal as the door to his room opened and the beam of light from the hallway bounced about the room. It was too bright! But thankfully the door closed and Norrington was barely able to register surprise to see Saunders standing next to the bed. A maid came beside the basin stand with an ewer of water and poured it gently into the bowl. Saunders took a small, clean bit of cotton cloth and dipped it into the fresh bowl of water. He said nothing as he pressed the cool, wet cloth to James' forehead.

Norrington trembled in relief at how soothing the cool rag felt against his pounding head. Soon he was able to relax as the cotton rag was removed, wet again, and pressed against his face. James was grateful for Saunders' blessed silence and he raised a shaking hand to press the cloth more firmly over his eyes to remove the crusty grit of ill tears. Saunders took back the rag a final time to rewet it and handed t back to Norrington, who pressed it to his face to wipe away the bile in the corners of his mouth.

"Saunders," James stated in a voice barely above a tortured whisper, "I want biscuits. Ship's biscuits. And tea. Very weak tea. Please." Saunders did not speak but nodded and turned to leave. "Saunders," Norrington's voice came again, a trifle stronger, "for the love of God, rid this room of lavender. I cannot bear it." Saunders nodded again and glanced at the maid with the meaning of passing the task along to her as he would take care of the biscuits and tea. The maid bobbed a curtsy and set about to removing the foul flower from the room.


End file.
